Page 13 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

I didn't know who moved first. Maybe me. Maybe her.

When I kissed her, her lips were sweet, like she'd just had wine. Soft as hell. She brushed timidly against the corner of my mouth, like a frightened animal desperate to please me so I wouldn't abandon her.

I should stop.

I tried to stop.

My brain told me this was taking advantage. She just wanted my protection. I shouldn't take her body.

But she was pressed against me. We could hear each other breathing.

And I remembered last night. How small she was under me. Her skin glowing. Her nipples like ripe strawberries, standing proud, trembling under my gaze.

Just thinking about it made me ache.

"Anna, stop."

But my arms pulled her tighter. She buried her face in my neck and gasped, wrapping her arms around me.

"Ivan, give it to me."

Her voice was soft, but it burned through every last shred of my control.

I didn't hesitate anymore.

I kissed down her jaw, careful to avoid the bruise on her cheek. My lips moved slowly, deliberately, mapping the soft line of her face as if memorizing every curve. The faint discoloration near her cheekbone was a quiet reminder of whatever she'd endured before tonight, and I treated the skin around it with almost reverent gentleness.

My tongue traced the cut on her lip—tasting the metallic edge of it, soothing the split with slow, careful strokes—then moved lower to her collarbone. The delicate hollow there invited me. I sucked the thin skin, drawing it between my teeth just hard enough to leave a mark, then lower still to her breasts.

The jacket I'd draped over her earlier slipped open under my fingers. I unbuttoned it completely and laid her back on the couch, the worn leather cool against her bare skin. Her breasts rose and fell with each shallow breath. I took her nipple into my mouth—biting, releasing, teasing—circling the tight peak with my tongue before closing my lips around it again. The other breast received the same attention from my hand, thumb rolling, pinching lightly until both nipples stood stiff and flushed.

My hand slid down her body, tracing the warm plane of her stomach, the soft dip of her navel, the gentle flare of her hips, until I reached her entrance. I didn't push in. Instead, I pressed against her clit, circling it with the pad of my finger, playing with the swollen bud until it grew even fuller under my touch and she was dripping. Wetness slicked my fingertips. I watched her face as I worked her, saw the way her lashes fluttered and her lips parted. Then I started stretching her with my fingers—one at first, sliding in slowly, feeling the tight heat of her, then a second, scissoring gently to open her.

Her back arched. She made a sound like a kitten mewling, high and soft and helpless. The sound went straight through me.

Anna reached out, her fingers scratching lightly at my chest. The faint sting of her nails triggered something feral in me. Heat pooled low in my gut. I added another finger, found the sensitive spot inside her that made her hips jerk, and teased it with deliberate pressure.

"Hey, kitten. Pets who scratch their owners get thrown out."

Anna's eyes went hazy for a moment, pupils blown wide. Then she whispered obediently, "Master, don't throw me away." The words were soft, almost trembling, but clear.

She stuck out her tongue and licked the scratch marks on my chest—slow, apologetic swipes that made my cock throb harder against the fabric still between us. Then she hooked her arms around my neck and kissed her way up, mimicking what I'ddone to her: soft open-mouthed kisses along my jaw, a careful drag of her tongue over my lower lip, until our mouths met and our tongues tangled together. The kiss turned deep and messy almost at once.

My self-control shattered.

I pulled her into my lap in one smooth motion, my palm grinding into the soft flesh at her waist. The heat of her bare skin against mine was almost too much. I pressed her hips down, guiding her onto me, inch by inch. The tight, wet clasp of her body opening around the head of my cock made my breath catch. Her thighs started trembling. She cried out—a sharp, broken sound that was equal parts pain and something else.

I kissed away her tears as they slipped free, soothing her with quiet murmurs against her cheek. I knew it was her first time. The knowledge sat heavy and electric in my chest. I forced myself to hold still, to let her adjust, even though every nerve in my body screamed at me to move, to thrust, to bury myself completely. My hands stayed firm on her waist, steadying her, giving her the control she needed.

Anna buried her face in my neck. The pain wasn't as bad as the emptiness inside her. She felt stretched, itchy, hollow—an unfamiliar ache that demanded more even as it stung. Trembling, she gripped my shoulders and started moving, grinding up and down in small, experimental rolls of her hips.

Like she'd found a new toy and was figuring out how to use it. Every movement drove me insane. The slow drag of her body along my length, the way she clenched instinctively when she rose, the soft, wet sounds of her taking me deeper—each one frayed what little restraint I had left.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. The next time she sank down, I gripped her waist tighter and thrust up hard, seating myself fully inside her.

Anna screamed. The sound cracked open in the quiet room.

I pressed my forehead against hers. We were so close I could feel her breath—warm, uneven, tasting of the salt of her tears.